


Moonlight Sonata

by SquishyCool



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, BHF2K20, Child Abuse, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Patricide, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Drinking, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27146513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SquishyCool/pseuds/SquishyCool
Summary: Daryl Dixon has a dark secret that he's been carrying since childhood. Nothing in the world could change it, not even his own brother. There's simply no denying his instincts.But just when he thinks his life has been turned upside-down for the last time... he stumbles upon Beth Greene.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Beth Greene
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35
Collections: Bethyl Holidays Fest





	1. nobody knows the trouble i've seen

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Full Moon" prompt for Bethyl Holidays Fest 2k20. Happy Halloween!

  
[cover photo courtesy of [@CourtneyShortney82](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Courtneyshortney82/pseuds/Courtneyshortney82)]

  
**nobody knows the trouble i’ve seen**

Daryl Dixon was ten years old the first time his life got turned upside-down.

It was a dreary Tuesday night. Raindrops were pelting the roof, making for the only sound inside the small mobile home. He’d fallen asleep in his mother’s lap. But when he woke up in the dead of night, he was lying in his own bed. The door to his tiny bedroom at the end of the hallway was shut tight. The rain had stopped. There was silence.

And then… there wasn’t.

He heard footsteps. They were fast and light, barely creaking the floor. At first, he thought it might’ve been Merle. But he quickly remembered that his big brother had left for bootcamp over a year ago, and he’d only called to let them know he wouldn’t be back anytime soon. Then Daryl figured it must be his dad finally stumbling home after another weekend bender. Even though the footsteps didn’t sound like his at all. 

The next thing he knew, his mom was screaming at the top of her lungs. A blood-curdling, ear-shattering scream that he’d never heard before. There was some thudding around, and the breaking of glass. 

Without thinking, Daryl jumped out of bed and ran to his bedroom door, ripping it open and tearing down the hall. He rushed through the doorway of his mom’s room, prepared to find his dad laying into her with bare-knuckled fists again. Afraid to find her unconscious, because then he’d have to call 911 again. 

But what he saw stopped him dead in his tracks. It wasn’t his dad at all. It wasn’t even… _human_.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the monster looming over his mother’s bed. The creature that was currently ripping into her chest with long, razor-sharp claws. It was taller than any person he’d ever seen before, and covered in fur.

It almost looked like a wolf.

But it _couldn’t_ be. Because it was standing on its hind legs, like a person. 

Then it smelled him. And its head whipped around. In the glow of the full moon that poured through the window, Daryl saw it. He met the monster’s bright yellow eyes. He saw the fresh red blood soaking its muzzle and dripping from its pointy teeth. It stopped tearing his mom’s flesh apart just long enough to let out a threatening growl.

He promptly pissed himself. 

His mother sputtered out a torturous sound of pain, and Daryl tore his gaze away from the creature just in time to see her reaching out a trembling hand. Her nightgown was torn to shreds. Something shiny and purple was protruding from the gaping wound of her abdomen. Blood was pouring out of her mouth.

“Daryl— _run_ …!”

He turned and ran.

But the wolf-monster was quick. Much quicker than a scrawny little ten-year-old boy. And Daryl didn’t make it more than a few feet away before he felt the claws in his back. Ripping his shirt from collar to hem. Dragging down his spine and leaving a long trail of torn flesh. 

He let out a cry of pain and stumbled, landing face-first on the kitchen floor. The back door was inches away. He didn’t take the time to turn back and look the monster in its eyes. Razor-sharp claws scratched clumsily at his left shoulder blade, but he’d already scrambled to his feet and begun darting off.

Somehow, he made it to the back door. Somehow, he outran the giant wolf creature and leapt off the side of the porch, flying out across the grass with impossible speed. Leaving a trail of blood the whole way. Losing the tattered remnants of his shirt somewhere in the frantic search for safety.

He could barely remember anything that happened after he slipped out of the monster’s grasp, though.

He knew he’d run around for a couple of seconds, unsure of whether he should dart into the woods or take his chances hiding. He couldn’t recall why he’d chosen to crawl under the house, or how exactly he’d gotten there.

The only memory that ever came to mind was hiding underneath the trailer. Watching from the shadows, through the slats of the skirting. A hand over his mouth to muffle his terrified whimpers. Warm blood dripping down his back and soaking the seat of his pajama pants. His own piss cooling and drying down his legs. His entire body trembling uncontrollably. 

It was the sight of the wolf-thing that stuck with him. The sensation of forgetting how to breathe as he watched the creature sniffing around for him and growing frustrated when it couldn’t locate him. How he’d kept telling himself, _but monsters aren’t real, monsters aren’t_ **_supposed_ ** _to be_ **_real_**.

Then it stopped right in the middle of the yard, and it arched its back and puffed out its barrel chest, tilting its long snout towards the full moon in the sky. And it let out a howl so animalistic that Daryl could feel his bones rattling. The sound seemed to echo off the moon itself.

No—that wasn’t an echo. That was the sound of a hundred creatures howling back from the depths of the woods. 

Soon after that, Daryl lost consciousness. And everything just seemed to get worse from there.

* * *

The police said it was a freak accident. A wild animal attack. A consequence of living out in the middle of nowhere. Because who knew what all was living out in those woods, and in such a scarcely populated area, there were bound to be some attacks every once in a while. And yeah, sometimes they were fatal. Such was the Circle of Life.

So everyone else blamed it on bad luck. But Will Dixon blamed it on Daryl. He claimed that Daryl had been irresponsible and left the back door open, and he’d probably been feeding those damn stray cats again too, so it was no wonder some feral creature came waltzing in looking for an easy meal. 

Daryl didn’t even try to explain what he’d seen. He told them it was a bear. They seemed to accept it as a plausible explanation for the state of his mother’s corpse and the wounds on his back.

Because he already knew his dad would never believe him if he tried to describe the monster he’d seen. And the cops would probably just get suspicious. And Daryl knew better than to get the authorities involved. He was sick of getting a fresh beating every time Social Services made a visit. 

So he kept his mouth shut. Even when he started to feel sick—terribly sick. Sicker than he’d ever been in his whole life. He was too scared to ask for a doctor or another hospital trip. He’d been punished quite a bit for the cost of being operated on and stitched up after the attack. Will had also assured him that he was gonna have to take the stitches out himself, because he wasn’t paying for even one more doctor’s visit. Which meant Daryl would just have to suffer silently and hope for the best.

But his back had been healing pretty well and he didn’t understand why, nearly a month later, he was suddenly weak and feverish. Why his skin was flaming red and his entire body was itchy. Why his stomach growled and panged with a hunger he’d never experienced before. Why his bones felt like they were slowly crumbling apart.

Luckily, his dad was off on a week-long bender with some waitress when Daryl went through his first Transformation. He was completely alone inside the trailer as he clawed at the floor with bloody fingernails, vomiting blood and chunks of black tar, sobbing and sweating and choking on his own bile. He blacked out and woke up in the yard, under the glow of the full moon.

And thank God they lived miles out of earshot of any neighbors, because after loudly dry-heaving a few more times over the dew-soaked grass, he began screaming. Wailing. At the top of his lungs. Much like his mama had when she was being eaten alive.

He couldn’t stop. The most horrendous pain he’d ever felt was tearing through every nerve in his body, as though all of his bones were being broken at the same time. He sobbed uncontrollably and gasped for breath, certain that he was dying. He eventually lost control of his bowels, all while his heart hammered inside his chest like it was trying to escape. But he could barely comprehend anything. He collapsed to the ground, his vision speckled with red dots. Right before he passed out, he saw fur sprouting up across his arms and down his legs. 

When he awoke again—or returned to consciousness from blacking out—he was standing in the middle of the woods. He could see a snout protruding from where his nose should’ve been, and he felt sharp teeth lining the inside of his mouth. His stomach panged with hunger. His face was tilted skywards. Towards the only source of light amongst the deep darkness.

The bright full moon, tinted red.

He was howling. The sound escaping his throat was long and low and sorrowful. It echoed off the trees.

Then the echo faded away. His heart thumped. And he heard the call being returned.

_“Aw-wooooo!”_

_“Woooooo-eeerrrr-ooooo!”_

_“Woo-wooo-woooooooo!”_

A heat coursed through his veins and he flexed his hands. He could feel his claws retracting at the tips of his fingers. A cold breeze ruffled his fur. His ears perked up.

He let out another howl. Longer. Louder. _Desperate_.

He couldn’t remember anything after that.

Two days passed. He woke up atop a pile of dead leaves in the middle of the woods. His mouth tasted like copper. The snout and claws and fur were gone. His skin was crusty with dried blood. Though he didn’t think the blood was his own.

It took him another two days to find his way back home—naked and covered in rashes, having been surviving on wild berries and bathing in streams and wiping his ass with poison oak.

But his fever had receded. He no longer felt sick. And the stitches were gone. His back was completely healed, the marks faded to nothing more than bright red scars.

His dad hadn’t even noticed his absence.

* * *

So it went for the next three years.

Daryl would be violently ill every month and wander his way back home from the depths of the Georgia wilderness. He would be free of the deep hunger when he returned, but he could never remember what he’d done. His dad would assume he’d either gone hunting or gotten his stupid ass lost, and then get pissed that he hadn’t brought back anything worth cooking and give him a beating. He’d go back to school with no questions asked—because he skipped school a lot anyway, so no one batted an eye when he went missing for nearly a full week every month. 

And everything was basically normal. Or as normal as they’d ever been. As they’d ever be again.

About a half-dozen trips to the public library, and several hours of reading through boring books with lots of big words that he didn’t understand, eventually led Daryl to believe that he was cursed. The beast that murdered his mother had infected him with a disease.

And the disease had a name, though there were very few people on earth who believed it was real. That it was anything more than an old fable.

_Lycanthrope._

It meant he was a freak. It meant he would never live a normal life, or be anything other than a monster. It meant he was diseased, cursed with a wretched existence. It meant he was incapable of ever associating with good human beings ever again. It meant he was _dangerous_. 

It meant his mama had gotten lucky. And it made him wish he’d never run away from that beast.

In sixth grade, Daryl had a health class that taught him about puberty and his changing body. And for about an hour, he thought that his experiences could’ve been universal. Maybe… somehow… 

Then he was snapped back to reality and reminded that the shit going on with his body was the kinda stuff you only saw in movies, or read about in fantasy novels. It wasn’t normal, that was for damn sure. There was a reason he’d kept it a secret. There was a reason he’d lied to the police and begun making more of an effort to keep himself distanced from other kids.

He was a threat to everyone around him. He was a monster.

He should’ve been dead. He had no place in the world. He didn’t want to become something even more treacherous than his father. He didn’t want to become just like the creature that murdered his mother. And he knew that’s what he would become. Clearly he couldn’t control himself. He couldn’t even stop from blacking out every full moon; waking up covered in something or some _one_ ’s blood. 

Becoming a beast more harmful than Will Dixon? That was a punishment worse than death.

So Daryl started planning out how he would kill himself. He stole away to the library another time or two and looked up all the information he could find on destroying lycanthropes. He went as far as deciding on a specific date—his birthday—and making a final to-do list. Once he’d tracked down the supplies he needed for his own death, of course. The first task on his list was writing a “thanks for nothing, see you in hell” letter to Merle. 

And then, a week before Daryl’s fourteenth birthday, his big brother came home.

And his life got turned upside-down for the second time.

**to be continued…**


	2. thicker than water

**thicker than water**

Merle Dixon’s return threw a wrench in all of Daryl’s plans.

He was no longer alone, nor was he the only one suffering his dad’s abuse. He suddenly had someone who gave a shit about where he was or what he was doing. He actually had someone on his side. Someone to stand between him and their asshole father.

For the first time since he’d seen his mama ripped apart, he had someone to answer to. Someone holding him accountable.

So he put off destroying himself. Because, shit. He’d really _missed_ having his big brother around.

For Daryl’s fourteenth birthday, Merle took him into a seedy part of Atlanta and paid a prostitute to take his virginity. A few days later, Merle began to make a habit of picking Daryl up from school and driving straight to the bar, where no one cared that a middle schooler was getting drunk. Everything was alright for a couple of weeks. Even Will seemed content—so long as he had a bag of dope and a jar of moonshine. And Merle was more than happy to help provide both. The eldest Dixon boy was downright eager to get into all kinds of trouble now that he was free from the strict code of the military.

Daryl went along with some of it. Like skipping school and drinking himself blind and committing misdemeanors. But he didn’t have any desire for the drugs or the women or the fighting. So it ended up being pretty easy to slip away from Merle for a few days every month. 

Three more years passed. Daryl grew taller. He developed muscles. And when he went through his monthly Transformations, he found himself growing stronger in his lycanthrope form, as well. Larger. More dangerous. His instincts were becoming harder to resist. He wanted to run with a pack. He wanted to taste raw flesh on his tongue. He wanted to roam free and uninhibited. But he fought the urges. He stole away every month and did what he had to do, then he returned as if nothing had happened.

He kept his dark secret, while his dad and brother remained distracted with their vices.

But if there was anything the Dixon brothers had inherited from their father, it was his temper. Made evident by all the fights that they got into with one another. It always started as arguing, then it would quickly evolve into yelling and screaming and finally, a full-on brawl. Merle and Daryl had given each other countless black eyes and split lips. And Will still regularly laid out beatings for them both. The drugs and liquor never helped the situation either.

Then one night, a month before Daryl’s eighteenth birthday, he and Merle stumbled home drunk. Will was waiting for them. He’d run out of meth to smoke and he was low on beers, and his latest bimbo had stood him up. He was itching for a fight.

And he got one.

* * *

Daryl couldn’t even remember how it started. He couldn’t remember how it ended, either.

It was a lot of left hooks and wrestling around, and more curse words than he could count. But somewhere amidst the drunken fog in his mind, he remembered that it was a full moon. He reminded himself that there was something much bigger than his dad’s usual bullshit to deal with tonight. 

So he left. He exited out the back door and stumbled across the grass, heading towards the woods. His blood was already heating up in his veins. Coursing faster. His heart was speeding up. His bones were beginning to ache. He’d been feeling sick all day, and he knew he should’ve made an effort to escape sooner. He was running out of time. He had to keep his secret. He had to get away.

Merle followed him. Daryl couldn’t recall all the details, but he knew he’d made it into the darkness of the woods by the time Merle caught up. And when he didn’t turn back or respond to any of Merle’s calls, he was jerked backwards by his brother’s strong hand. He lost his footing, but only briefly.

He didn’t realize his shirt had ripped until he’d already stood back up and begun walking away.

“The fuck—he do that t’you?! He whip you while I was gone? _Huh?_ Answer me, boy!”

Merle had seen the scars. But Daryl still didn’t turn back. He had to get away. Before he lost control. Before he had to try and explain those horrendous marks.

Then his dad’s voice echoed behind him. “What the fuck’re you stupid assholes doin’ out here? Try’na run from me?! _Hey!_ Get back here, you little prick! You fuckin’ pussy bitch, I’m gonna whoop the white off yer ass, boy!”

He could hear the fury in Will’s voice, and it made his blood boil all that much hotter. But he still didn’t turn back. 

His vision went red. The pain wracked his body—the sensation of every one of his muscles being ripped apart and reshaped.

Then he blacked out.

When he awoke, the sun was shining. He was lying in the dirt, wrapped around the trunk of a tree. There was a trail of ants crawling across his arm, and every inch of his bare skin was covered in scratches and dried blood. His mouth tasted like copper, and when he exhaled, it smelled like foul meat.

He lifted his head to find Merle perched on a stump a few feet away. Watching him. The corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk.

“Good morning, baby brother,” he drawled, icy blue eyes narrowing.

Daryl didn’t respond. He blinked and glanced around. He couldn’t remember _anything_. He was completely naked, on top of being woozy and disoriented. And where the hell was his dad?

Then Merle _tsk_ ed, snapping Daryl’s attention back to him. He was still smirking.

“So when was you gonna let me in on yer little _secret_?”

* * *

Will Dixon was Daryl’s first victim.

That he knew of…

Merle agreed to keep it a secret in exchange for a scratch. Or a bite. Or whatever it was that would make him “that fuckin’ lethal.” And even though Daryl tried to explain that it was a curse, a disease, an affliction that couldn’t be cured, Merle remained persistent. He bullied his little brother into giving in.

Daryl couldn’t even say he entirely regretted it. Because if he had a choice when it came to who he was doomed to suffer with, he would’ve chosen Merle anyway. Besides… it wasn’t like killing his dad was the _worst_ thing that ever happened to him.

In fact, it was almost freeing.

No one came looking for Will Dixon. No one gave a damn whether he was alive or dead. Merle buried what remnants of the body he could salvage before Daryl regained consciousness, and neither of them bothered to go digging it back up to examine the damage.

From what Merle said, Daryl’s dark secret had ripped their father apart. Limb from limb. Splattering blood across the trees and the ground. Devouring tendons and flesh. Tearing into his chest just to pull out a still-beating heart and sink two full rows of jagged teeth into the pulsating organ.

“The stuff of fucking _nightmares_ , I’ll tell ya what,” Merle had said, his hands still trembling and caked in dirt.

Daryl could only imagine.

Then his big brother had grinned. A wicked, devilish grin. The sun cast an odd glow across his skin through the canopy of trees above them. Daryl would never forget it.

“You did what I been wantin’ ta do fer the last twenty years. Givin’ that bastard exactly what he deserved in the most _painful_ way possible… So share the wealth, li’l brother. Let’s raise hell _together_. Just like we always done.”

Admittedly, it didn’t take much to convince Daryl. Especially when he was no more than a dumb, lost teenager. Newly orphaned. And sick of being abandoned. Who else would still accept him after seeing this monstrous side of him?

No one but Merle.

Not to mention, he couldn’t help but feel relieved that he was finally free— _truly free_ —of his father. 

Merle understood. He understood Daryl better than anyone ever could. There were no secrets with him.

* * *

They spent Daryl’s eighteenth birthday under the full moon.

Merle’s first Transformation was just as painful as Daryl’s had been. But once he made it through the worst parts, he celebrated by bounding through the dark woods at his brother’s side and ripping open fresh deer carcasses with his newly-acquired claws and fangs.

After that, Merle took the lead. And Daryl was fine with it. Because he eventually convinced himself that he just hadn’t been _doing it_ right. This disease was not a curse. Not according to Merle. And Daryl was prone to believe him.

Because Merle always knew best. Daryl was just grasping blindly in the darkness. He’d been barely making it all these years; struggling to hide his terrible secret; fighting back the instincts that overwhelmed him with every lunar cycle. He should’ve known to trust his brother. To follow him.

Merle would lead the way. Just like he’d always done. He would keep Daryl safe; he would keep his baby brother on the appropriate path.

For a while, it became just another part of their lives. Daryl accepted the notion that he’d never known how to properly appreciate his… _abilities_. He kept following after Merle. Almost like a lost dog. Kept trusting him. They relied on each other and protected each other.

They were bound by _blood_.

In more ways than one.

* * *

For Daryl’s twenty-first birthday, Merle had a “special” surprise for him.

The eldest Dixon had managed to track down the bastard who killed their mama. It only took him a few years to do what Daryl had been secretly wanting to do for the last decade.

All the more reason to keep trusting Merle. To keep following his lead. Clearly he knew how to get shit done.

They spent a week drinking themselves sick and couch-surfing. But that wasn’t the celebratory part.

The _real_ celebration came with the arrival of the full moon. They Transformed out in the middle of the woods, close to some very specific territory that Merle had been keeping an eye on. 

Daryl’s memories of the night came back in blurry bits and pieces. _Bloody_ bits and pieces.

He remembered running through the woods on all fours, sniffing the air for a scent that had become familiar. He remembered seeing the gold and grey fur of Merle’s coat, and following after him. Bounding across undergrowth and weaving between trees. Exchanging growls that said “he’s close” and “hurry up, this way” and “over there” and “don’t lose him.”

There were a lot of things he couldn’t remember. Like how they’d cornered him. But the next thing Daryl knew, there he was: the beast who killed his mother. Even after eleven years, he looked the same. Just as large. Just as ferocious. Just as terrifying. 

Yet Daryl couldn’t remember feeling any fear. In fact, a strange new sensation was flooding through him. As soon as the beast growled, Daryl felt all the fur on his back stand on end.

Merle growled, “You’re gonna pay for what you did, motherfucker,” and took a step closer. The beast stood his ground, glowing yellow eyes darting back and forth between the Dixon brothers. 

He locked his eyes on Daryl and snarled, “I recognize your scent, boy. I turned you. If you kill me, your soul will be _cursed_.”

Merle let out a low howl. “It already is, dipshit! Thanks to you!”

The beast turned to focus on the eldest Dixon. And that’s when the sensation inside him became so strong, Daryl could no longer suppress it. He leapt at his mother’s murderer, claws out and teeth bared.

There was a lot of blood and chunks of fur and growling and yelping. The snapping of jaws and the cracking of bones. He put up a damn good fight. But it was two-on-one… that asshole never stood a chance. Once they’d tussled around and tired him out, Merle backed off just long enough for Daryl to rip a fatal chunk from the beast’s throat.

And when it was all over, the Dixon boys feasted on a still-warm corpse. Then they reared back on hind legs, puffed their blood-drenched chests out, and howled at the moon so loudly that it echoed for miles.

The one part Daryl could remember, clear as day, was how weightless—how _free_ he felt as he darted through the woods with blood and viscera still dripping from his muzzle.

It was easily the best birthday gift Merle had ever given him.

* * *

Over the course of nearly twenty years, the Dixon brothers raised all kinds of hell together. They drifted around from one corner of Georgia to the next, never staying long enough to learn any names, but making friends everywhere regardless.

“ _Friends_.” Not that Daryl ever cared for anyone. Merle was all he had. And that was fine with him. There wasn’t a single person they’d met that they’d liked enough to pass up on robbing them blind.

Daryl and Merle suffered together. Surviving day-by-day. Prospering once every month, during the full moon. Somewhere along the way, Daryl started gaining control. He stopped blacking out. Though he felt every bit of pain and hunger and empty longing, he remained conscious of his actions. With his elongated snout and his fur-covered body and his razor-sharp claws. He still knew what he _was_. What he was _doing_. He was able to stop himself when he knew he was doing something inhumane. He taught himself to suppress some of the deeper urges while still giving in to his most unavoidable instincts.

He knew Merle had that ability, too. Because Merle always remembered everything they did during the full moon. Recalled everywhere they went and all the animals they killed and ate. All the fights they got into with other creatures of their kind.

And whenever they killed people, he would laugh about it. Stupid hunters out in the middle of nowhere. Stupid townsfolk and backwoods hicks taking strolls in the dead of night, all alone, completely defenseless. 

After a while, it became _stupid humans_. Vulnerable people. Those who were easiest to prey on. 

Yeah. They were just _asking_ for it.

Daryl didn’t object because he was hungry. And he trusted Merle. If no one was trying to stop them, then maybe it wasn’t so awful after all?

 _Monsters aren’t real,_ he reminded himself. _We’re just like everybody else._

And they were, in a way. But that didn’t change the fact that they were still alone. 

Even though there were other creatures just like them at every turn. Beasts with their same affliction who wandered the Georgian wilderness during the full moon and howled so loudly that it could be heard for miles and miles. Monsters that preyed upon the weak, leaving nothing but flayed flesh and unanswered questions in their wake. 

It was unavoidable, really. Merle had always been all about that race superiority bullshit. Once he had a whole _new_ race—rare and supernatural—to flaunt, it was inevitable that he would let it go to his head. That he would find the absolute worst members of their kind to associate himself with.

Daryl fucked up. Because he allowed himself to fall into a routine. He made the mistake of allowing himself to lower his guard, despite the fact that he’d been holding a fatally dark secret for over thirty years. He screwed up by assuming Merle’s faults and their combined reckless behavior would never turn around to bite them both in the ass.

He’d been stupid enough to _trust_ Merle. 

When the Hunters came, Daryl Dixon’s life was turned upside-down for the third time. 

**to be continued…**

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a werewolf fic so any and all constructive criticism is very much appreciated :)  
> 10 chapters is a rough estimate. Could be less, will likely be more. But I don't plan on making it nearly as long as my other fics.


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